What do you Fear, Stephen?
by CrazyMich
Summary: Stephen Strange deals with the aftermath of half the world, including himself, returns from the dead. Meanwhile there is something mystical happening that needs his investigation and connects him to friends old and new.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Doctor Strange or anything Marvel, save some comics, movies and action figures. Oh and a few posters. I just got tired of waiting for the next Dr. Strange film. Some of this story is derivative of the 2007 Doctor Strange cartoon. I don't own that either.

What do you Fear, Stephen?

Chapter 1:

Paul Edwards dropped his house keys on the bowl as he entered the front room. The house was silent…too silent. "Hun?"

It wasn't quite an old fear yet, that feeling of coming home, his wife suddenly vanished, their baby daughter crying weakly from the nursery. A fear that even the death of Thanos and the return of his wife hadn't completely conquered.

"Sweetheart?" he called louder this time. He held his breath, straining to hear past the rapid beat of his heart.

Before he could think, his feet were moving him deeper into the house. The noonday sun shining through the front windows. He'd started coming home for lunch once Emily had been brought back. For her it had seemed like a hiccup of time, not even a blink, but for him he'd mourned for five years, their baby was just about to start kindergarten.

The last few months had been a balancing act between the awkward to the familiar and everything in between. Emily found herself loving a stranger and he a memory. To rebuild what was lost, he'd started to come home for lunch, to sit and eat together and talk. He was about to head for their bedroom when Emily came out into the hall.

Her finger was pressed to her lips and her dark brown eyes were full of concern. "It's okay," she whispered to him. "It's okay. We're okay. Amelia wasn't feeling well, so I put her down for a nap." She threw her arms around him, knowing his quiet desperation. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to wake her. I'm sorry."

He clutched her to him, burying his fingers into her curly black hair. Despite the uneasiness, their stumbling relationship, he knew one thing to be true; he'd rather have Emily here with him in this world, than not.

Holding her at arms-length, he studied her face, the smooth dark skin, her full lips. Flesh and blood. Alive. It was a miracle. He gave her a watery smile. "No. I overreacted. One day this will all be a bad memory and you'll get to make jokes about your cradle-robbing husband."

She nudged him with a teasing grin, the one that made him first take notice over ten years ago. "Ah, it just puts us on even ground now. I've always been the more mature one."

Taking his hand, she led him to the kitchen. Food wasn't scarce, but the government had instituted a ration program once everyone had come back from the decimation. Canned food was the easiest. Most of it could last a few years, while farming and ranching worked to expand to the needs of a population redoubled.

He reached into a cupboard to pull out a can of stew and fought with the can opener. Just as he was emptying the contents into a pan, he smelt it. Fresh baked bread. It had been hanging in the air when he got home but his fear had blocked it out.

She grinned at his awe as she sliced two thick pieces. "How?" he asked.

"Ginger had some leftover flour and sugar. She said I needed to fatten up my man."

"That was kind of her. Antiquated, but kind. I'll have to thank her once I head back to the site."

When the decimation had occurred, there had been a lot of abandoned buildings, cars, and other property. Some became claimed by remaining family members, taken to storage facilities, others had been slowly gathered off the streets and catalogued. Much of it had been repurposed for families in need. Now though, they were working on reclaiming some of the property to the rightful owners. Those things that had been rusted over with time and disuse were now being reworked to build newer cars, refurbish homes that hadn't fallen to decay but needed reworking to be livable.

It was chaos, pure joyful chaos.

He poured them a couple of bowls and sat down to eat.

"What's wrong with Amelia?" he asked as he dunked his bread into the stew.

"Stomach bug, I think. She has a low grade fever and she complained that her stomach hurt. I gave her some Tylenol and helped her get to sleep. I'm hoping by tomorrow she'll be feeling better."

"You gave her the liquid she hates…"

"Hates the chewables, I remembered," she finished. "She called me mommy today."

She said it nonchalant, with the casual shrug of her left shoulder, but Paul knew how much that meant to her. It meant their little girl was finally coming to terms that her mother was back. He wished he could promise that she'd never vanish again, but despite the joy of most, there were others who were taking advantage of the chaos after their miracle. Those who would rather raid than work with S.H.I.E.L.D and Paul's own division. There had been too much violence already.

"That's great, hun," he grabbed her hand and rubbed a thumb over the back of it. "We're becoming a proper family again."

They finished their humble meal, talking about work, and Amelia starting school in the fall. Emily had started to looking at communications positions that had opened up in the few months due to the return of those decimated. She had an interview on Friday and Ginger had agreed to watch Amelia.

Eventually, he stood up and leaned over to give her a kiss goodbye. "I'll see you tonight."

That's when a scream of agony came from Amelia's bedroom. With a quick shared glance, they both bolted from their daughter's room. "What's wrong, baby?" Emily called. "Are you going to be sick?"

There was no response and as they turned on the lights, it might have looked like Amelia was sleeping. She might have been sleeping if her eyes weren't wide open.

STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE

It had been a long night in the ER and Doctor Christine Palmer was looking forward to falling into bed and not waking up until her husband, David, brought her a steaming cup of coffee with a seriously unhealthy cheese danish. Those dreams were cut off when a distraught man carrying a young girl came through the ER doors.

"Help, please help me," he called, his deep voice shrill with anxiety.

Christine gestured to an orderly to grab a stretcher. She caught a glimpse of the girl and froze. Her dark brown eyes were open, but they seemed to be bouncing back and forth in a repetitive manner. It almost looked like she was asleep wither eyes open, her cycle set to REM.

The fact that she was supposed to be on her way out and home flew from her mind. "I'm Doctor Palmer, what's the problem?"

The orderly brought the stretcher and Christine guided the man to lay the girl down while she listened to him stutter out an explanation. "She cried out…she was feeling sick to her stomach…but she wouldn't respond. Her eyes."

"Okay, okay," she said, trying to calm down his hysteria. "Are you her father?"

"Yes," he swallowed. "Yes," he nodded.

"Alright, what's her name?"

"Amelia, Amelia Edwards."

"And yours?"

"Paul."

They were now moving into triage and the nurse came to the side to take Amelia's vitals. "When did you first notice her symptoms."

"I was at work. My wife went to park the car, she could tell you more."

Christine waved her penlight in the Amelia's eyes. Her pupils dilated, but she didn't flinch. Nor did she react when Christine clapped her hands close to her ear. Emily Edwards wasn't too far behind her husband and daughter. Once she had the full story, she pulled the nurse over and ordered a CBC, MRI and EEG.

As she makes her way back to her office, she rested a hand on each parents' shoulder. "We'll do our best."

Christine called David and told him she'd be sleeping at the hospital. He'd clucked his tongue with fond understanding and asked her if she needed anything. She slept for four blissful hours before her MRI results came in.

She rubbed tiredly at her eyes as she looked at the scan. She compared it the results of the CBC and the EEG. There was nothing in her bloodwork, nothing to indicate a virus or infection that could explain the swelling of Amelia's brain. But the EEG was the weirdest and most concerning thing. With a sigh, Christine picked up her phone. If it was a weird thing, there was only one man she could call.

STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE

Three months after coming back to the living, Stephen Strange found that he still couldn't sleep through the night. There were potions, spells that kept the nightmares away. But it wasn't the nightmares, though those were horrible enough that kept him awake. It was the awful nothingness that seemed to crawl into him and not let go. The blank grey that never ended and promised to swallow him whole. He'd asked others that returned after the snap, but not even the other Masters could account for his reaction.

Wong kept him busy enough, the London Sanctum had recovered over his five year absence but required his and the rest of the Masters' skills to boost the wards that the three sanctums provided a barrier for Earth.

After Tony Stark's funeral, he'd spent a month keeping war from breaking out in the Kalwaxay dimension. When he was the most exhausted, he just slept, and the frightening nothingness did not encroach on his subconscious.

It was never gone for long.

So he wandered the halls of his Sanctum, checked in with the apprentices at Kamar-Taj, and searched out reasons to occupy his time until he reached exhaustion. Sadly, in the last week there hadn't been much unrest with the otherworldly or extra-dimensional citizenry. After Bruce Banner had undone the decimation it was more an earthly chaos. Not his area of expertise.

He was currently reviewing the recent relic inventory that the apprentices had made of the Hall of Wisdom. His lips curved in a smile when he remembered Wong's reaction when he suggested the inventory. He forbade any of the Masters from letting any of the apprentices in his library. He would do that inventory himself.

Stephen was half tempted to conjure a portal into the library and move some of the books around. It had been a while since he'd had a good laugh. Instead, he finished his review of the relics, marking the ones that he would discuss security with the other Masters and which ones would need to be brought to one of the Sanctums.

With the Sorcerer Supreme dead for the last seven years, the Masters of the Mystic Arts had been running Kamar-Taj and the defense of earth by consensus. While he'd been gone no Sorcerer Supreme had been named but most deferred to the other Sanctum Masters. Wong had been guarding the New York Sanctum. He'd been relieved to return it to Stephen's protection.

He started when his cell phone rang. With shaking fingers, he pulled it from his robes and looked at the display screen. His heart thudded. He hadn't talked to Christine since he'd first come back. Everything had been awkward between them in a way that not even he being an arrogant asshole had been able to produce.

"Christine?" he answered.

"Hey, Stephen. I need your help."


	2. Chapter 2

What do you Fear, Stephen?

Chapter 2:

Stephen hadn't been in a hospital since the Ancient One had passed, let alone what used to be his hospital. He'd been feeling enough like a man out of time, now he felt as though he'd taken a step out of one life and into another. He'd been a Master of the Mystic Arts for two years, but in those years, he had lived several lifetimes. First with the time-loop with Dormammu and then using the Time Stone to see over fourteen million futures, the Doctor Strange who'd been a neurosurgeon seemed a different creature entirely.

The smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, the slightly less pervasive metallic tang of blood, the vivid sweet taste of scented air freshener that always reminded Stephen more of vomit than a fragrant field of flowers. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine asking Billy for the next 'Challenge Round.' It reminded him, he needed to bring a record player to the Sanctum.

He didn't recognize anyone manning the front desk and it was clear they didn't recognize him. And he'd even transfigured his robes and the cloak into a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and sweater.

"I'm Doctor Strange, I'm here to consult with Doctor Palmer."

The woman behind the desk held up a finger as she grabbed a ringing phone. Several pens had been pushed behind her ear and there was a stack of paperwork she was thumbing through. When he'd seen Christine, before his month-long negotiation, she had told him they were short on staff and running on high as people who'd been injured before the decimation came back as they'd left. Not everyone had instantly disappeared, it had come in agitating waves and accidents had happened.

He knew he should have just opened a gateway in the supply closet again. This was what nostalgia got him. He blew out a breath and practiced his still growing patience.

He didn't have to practice for very long. She hung the phone up and pulled another pen from the desk and wrote herself a note on a sticky pad. "Sorry, sir, how can I help you?"

"Doctor Palmer, I'm here to consult with her," he answered, trying to give a charming smile. "I'm Doctor Strange."

She pushed the pen behind her left ear and picked up the phone again. Once she hung up, she said, "You know where you're going?"

She buzzed him through and he made his way to Christine's office. The transfigured Cloak of Levitation tugged and adjusted, discomforted to be made into the red button up sweater he wore. He ran a soothing hand down his chest and tried not to look insane as he spoke with his clothing. The Cloak pouted through their mental bond but settled underneath his hand.

He was walking past the long-term care patients, when he felt it. An energy vibrated against his skin, different than that of the dark dimension, but with a touch of sinister malice. He stilled, getting acquainted with the new sensation. A metaphysical slinky, he tossed the energy back and forth, trying to place it.

It floated away once he let it go. Much like a smoke cloud following an airplane, this was the residue of the spell, not the spell itself.

"Stephen," Christine's voice shook him out of his thoughts. Her expression was the now familiar mix of fond, dubious acknowledgement of Stephen's weird life. "What are you doing?"

"I think I know something of why you've called me here. Someone has either used magic or has had magic used on them?"

"A five-year-old girl," Christine agreed. "I've got her tests on the screen. Come on."

It took less than a second to see the swelling in the backlite imaging of the child's brain. "Encephalitis?"

"Not according to the CBC. The mother said she was feeling ill before she went to sleep. But I think that's more from exhaustion, than from an actual virus," Christine answered.

"Exhaustion?" Stephen raised a dark brow.

"Amelia has been having nightmares, they've been keeping her up at night." Stephen scoffed. He was willing to bet that 95% of the world was plagued by bad dreams.

"Even now," Christine continued, "She looks like she's dreaming. But the EEG…," she drew off and used her finger to swipe the screen to the EEG results.

Stephen leaned closer to inspect the image. The erratic peaks and valleys of an Encephalitis patient were there, but there was also a distorted echo, another set of sketched lines. "By the vapors of Valtorr," Stephen breathed. "I need to borrow your couch."

She had that quirk to her mouth, a barely concealed smirk. "What?"

"Vapors of Valtorr?" she asked. "Is that a cult thing?"

His mind still on the double lines of the EEG, it took Stephen a second to process what she had said. "What? Oh, shut up."

She laughed at his grumpy response, muttering that she wasn't going to let him nap on her couch unless he was nicer to her. "Why exactly do you need the couch?"

"It's just easier when I leave my body to have somewhere to rest it," he said, as though he were giving her cooking instruction rather than magic comforts.

"It's so obvious," she said, again with the smirk.

He frowned up at her as he lay down, his feet sticking out and over the armrest. "I think I liked you better before marital bliss made you loopy."

"Yes, I'm the weird one."

He made an unamused face at her before closing his eyes to concentrate. It was almost thoughtless now, separating his spirit/astral form from the flesh of his body. He didn't even look back to make sure 'he' was still laying on Christine's sofa. Instead, he followed the energy he'd sensed earlier, into the little girl's room.

Even in the distorted darkness of the astral dimension, he could see that she had dark curly hair, her naturally olive skin was pale and the dark brown eyes wide and unseeing. "Amelia," he called, the sound echoing around the astral dimension. It didn't cause the father to flinch or the mother, who napped at haphazard angles on the uncomfortable hospital furniture, to stir.

Names had power, especially in magic. He should have been able to call her with just her name. But he felt that foreign energy surge, as though an ocean wave had risen and blocked his clarion call. He frowned and pushed his hand onto the girl's forehead.

Immediately, he was bombarded with her nightmares. The dead rose from ashen graves, their eyes glowing eerily against the shadowed sky. With his eidetic memory, he recognized one of the living dead as her mother. The truth of the restoration of those Thanos had decimated but changed by the simple fear and knowledge of a child. How many frightening stories, movies and TV shows had been released before the decimation, only to have the dead reappear to the living? She'd drawn the only conclusions she'd could from her own meager experience.

"Amelia Edwards," he called again, this time weighing his voice with the heavy formality he'd used to deal with Dormammu.

"GET OUT SORCERER," a guttural voice cried out in his mind.

Something sharp lashed out at him and stung against his reflexive uplifted arm. The impact tossed him with such force that he went through the wall into the next patient's room. He hovered dazed, his mind trying to grasp everything that had just happened.

He held his arm, in his shaking hand and clutched them both to his chest. It ached and throbbed, a brand that made him vaguely queasy. Perhaps, he should have done this in his physical form. Hoping to ease the ache, he floated back to his physical form.

A hiss escaped between clenched teeth as he shot up from his lying position on the couch. Christine staggered back a few steps with a hand to her mouth. "Stephen," she gasped. "What's wrong?"

Raising his left arm, he could already see a red stain, pressing through the ribbons bracing his forearm. His distraction and the pain had reverted his transfiguration of his clothes. He was glad. The Cloak could be very comforting. Christine dropped to her knees beside him, gently cupping the area around the wound. Now that he was in his full physical form, the pain had doubled, just as stabbing as those microcrystals the Maw had used on him.

"How?"

"What happens…in the astral…dimension will affect…your body," he said, between staggered breaths.

He fought for the calm that had taken ahold of him in the Dark Dimension, that certainty that had allowed him to hand over the Time Stone, knowing that half the universe would be gone with him. He felt the absence of the Eye of Agamotto, its comforting weight had given him options. It had allowed him the time he needed to catch up to a lifetime of study. Now that crutch was gone.

Christine's hazel eyes shot to her office door. "Amelia?" 

He shook his head, swallowing. "She's not there. Not completely. She might be lost in her nightmare. I'm not sure. Something kicked me out before I could get any further."

"Let's get your arm fixed," she said, abruptly changing the subject.

Christine was one of the few people Stephen knew cared. He knew that being unable to help that little girl tore a little bit at her soul every second. In the absence of being able to heal her real patient, she turned her practical attention to him. He took advantage of it, silently telling himself he allowed it for her sake instead of admitting he'd been shaken by the recent event.

The wound was angry and red, cutting into his flesh. It needed stitches. While Christine worked, he noted the differences in her office. The wedding photos of her and David, the updated computer, the flowers that looked as though they'd been picked out of someone's garden. He wondered vaguely if David had given them to her. If they were for an anniversary or if the man was wise enough to give them to Christine without needing a reason.

Stephen had never been that wise.

"You still wear the watch I gave you," she said, breaking into her thoughts. "Are you going to get the glass replaced?"

He shrugged, not wanting to get into all the reasons he still wore it. When he'd first come to Kamar-Taj, it had been a reminder of the world he left behind, the world he'd wanted to get back. Once he'd settled into being the Master of the New York Sanctum, it was a reminder that even broken things could have value. That this broken man could still have value.

"What should I do for her?" she asked, wrapping gauze around the stiches.

"Make her comfortable, if she seems in distress. But I don't think she knows what's going on," Stephen said. "I'll head back to the Sanctum's library. If there's not anything there, it's been a while since I've stolen a book from Wong, I think he's become complacent."

As always, Christine saw through him. She must have taken lessons from the Ancient One or the Ancient One from her. "Are you okay?"

He offered her a wan smile. "I've had worse."

"That's what concerns me." She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze serious. When had they moved from their comfortable banter, to this very uncomfortable interrogation? "You seem to take on all of this by yourself. Aren't there others that could help you? Other Master Cultists?" she teased gently.

"Of course, there are," Stephen said.

"Why aren't they here, consulting with you?"

"North and South America are my domain, my duty to protect, as well as the Sanctum," he said.

She clicked her tongue. "You've never helped with Hong Kong or London or wherever they say, 'Vapors of Valtorr?'"

Leaning down, he kissed her cheek. "Believe me, it's better this way. I'll keep in touch. Let me know if there's any change."

He practically ran out of her office, trying very hard not to look like he was running out of her office. With a sigh, he pulled his sling ring from his belt and opened a portal to his Sanctum.


	3. Chapter 3

I know in the recent Doctor Strange movie, Stephen's sister died by drowning. But since it was a deleted scene that didn't even make it onto the DVD, I'm throwing it out and going with 2007 direct-to DVD version. I think it fits a little better. At least in this story.

What do you Fear, Stephen?

Chapter 3:

Wong frowned at the large stack of books that he'd just moved from the stacks onto his work table. The Masters had all agreed that an inventory should be done, but Wong privately blamed Strange for all of it anyway. Especially since he'd worn that wide-eyed, I'm-so-innocent-and-funny look he was so fond of. Wong regretted his momentary lapse in Hong Kong after Kaecilius and the zealots had joined the dark dimension. He'd assured Strange that it would not be happening again.

Stephen, of course, had taken his secret revenge.

Still, many of the books, especially those of the deceased Ancient One were dangerous, often just from opening the cover. Another Strange quirk that Wong often had to clean up after. Still, that quirk had led the man to save not only Wong's life, but the entire world. Stephen's curiosity may one day get him killed or be the key ingredient to preventing an apocalypse. Wong was still trying to decide if one was worth the risk of the other.

He fingered the computer that had been set up for his inventory and pecked out the title of Oshtur's grimoire. In English, it translated to 'The Guide to Seeing Everything.'

"Having fun," a deep voice asked in amusement.

Wong did not jump. He didn't. His muscles twitched. There was a difference. He looked up into Stephen's careful constructed deadpan face and impish eyes. "What do you want?"

"A book," Stephen replied.

Wong shot him a sour expression.

"On waking dreams, mystical comas, anything similar," Strange continue, his tone turning from mocking to serious. Thoughtlessly, Strange fingered his left arm. Wong noticed the bandage wrapped there for the first time. "Also, anything on entities in the astral dimension who could cause such a phenomenon."

"What's going on, Strange?"

"A young girl is in a catatonic state. There was evidence someone or something was influencing her. Christine called me," Strange said, his voice taking on a careful note. "When I went to investigate, something tossed my astral form out. I need information."

"Did you have Master Hamir look at that?"

Now it was Stephen's turn to glare at him. "I am a doctor, Wong, remember?"

"You've guarded it from earthly infection, not from mystic infection," Wong reminded him. "You're an exceptional…"

Stephen cut him off. "Yes, yes, I may have a gift, but I'm still vastly ignorant. I think we're all familiar with my short comings. Can I just get the books?"

Wong thought about continuing their usual passive-aggressive banter but paused at the change in Strange's voice. He was still re-learning the man's idiosyncrasies. Before Thanos, he'd visited the New York Sanctum frequently. Strange usually fed him while he extracted whatever knowledge he could from the guardian of the Hall of Wisdom. Neither of them would admit they enjoyed each other's company. Wong had probably been one of the few people who could say they understood Doctor Stephen Strange.

Wong had lived the last five years, but it seemed that Stephen had changed the most. He came to the meetings of the Masters, he continued to do his duties, but Wong hadn't been to the Sanctum and Stephen only came to Kamar-Taj when he needed information. He was afraid that the newest Master of the Mystic Arts was distancing himself from the others.

Surreptitiously, Wong eyed the younger man while he scanned through his books. "It's hard to keep an inventory if all my books are lent out."

"I'll read them tonight, while I'm sleeping," Stephen said.

"How about tomorrow morning, after you sleep," Wong countered.

"What are you, my mother now?"

Wong dignified that comment with a book to the back of Strange's head. The man rubbed at the now sore spot; his brows furrowed in disbelief. "What the hell?" Another thing Wong liked about Stephen was his refusal to backdown from Wong's antagonism. Strange must have read his face because the next moment, he said, "I'm fine, Wong. Really."

"A Master of the Mystic Arts should not neglect their well-being. You are being a fool, Stephen?"

"Well, this conversation is truly stimulating," Stephen said caustically. "But I'm a little rushed for time. Sick girl, possibly extradimensional. A little more important than my sleeping habits."

He reached for the books in Wong's hands, but the librarian held them back. "Four hours, no astral projection."

The younger man blew out a sigh of defeat. "Fine. Can I have the books now?"

"Not yet," Wong said. "There's a meeting, you can help me inventory until it's been called."

"Right. But I thought no one could disturb your system."

"You can eat while I explain it to you," Wong said.

"Eat?"

Wong nodded as one of the apprentices came in carrying the breakfast from the kitchens. Or more his breakfast, Strange's dinner. "I should have added a three-meal-a-day provision. Go on. I'm pretty sure we've got few barrels of apples that have come in."

The strained atmosphere eased as an apple suddenly appeared in Strange's trembling hand. "Way ahead of you."

Wong didn't let his surprise show. In quieter moments, the Ancient One had expressed her desires for Stephen to him and Mordo. Despite the man's age, the personal walls he'd come with and his own mortal flaws, Stephen Strange had been made for magic. Once he'd broken down the barriers of his own disbelief, his narrowed knowledge and truly opened his eye, there hadn't been a spell in which he couldn't perform.

No novice under a year of training should have been able to use the Time Stone in the Eye of Agamotto. Not even Kaecilius had dared to take it, instead opting to take out the pages to the Book of Cagliostro, allowing the dark dimension to come in. Despite their warnings and criticisms, Wong still wasn't sure if Stephen truly understood what he'd done the first time he'd used the stone.

Wong knew without a doubt that he looked upon the next Sorcerer Supreme. The only problem was keeping him alive long enough for him to accept that mantel. If Mordo had stayed, it would have made things easier. Mordo had trusted Stephen, had brought him in and mentored him, when Wong was still wary of another talented student. They had bickered and disagreed but as brothers who trusted each other.

Wong suspected that Mordo's loss had hurt Stephen more than the younger man would admit.

"Are you even listening?" Stephen's voice cut through his reverie.

He grunted, tearing his gaze from the computer to Stephen's irate expression. "Sorry, my mind wandered."

"Maybe you should be getting some sleep," the other man grumbled. "The Everinnye dimension. There are demons linked to dreams, but I thought the Sleepwalkers defended human minds. This girl, I called her by her full name and I still couldn't find her astral-self before I was kicked out. Could a demon have done that?"

"It's possible. Many things that were dormant before the decimation, may have been reawakened by Banner's restoration."

"Great," Stephen hissed. With a wave of his hand, he magicked away his apple core and tuned to the rest of his food. "Did you grab books on demon magic?"

"Of course," Wong said. He picked up the one in Sumerian. "Inhabitants of Everinnye. There's a few counterspells in there. Most of them though are guarding the mind against entrance. You should already know those."

"I've been taking the potions, doing the rituals, Wong." One of the first lessons of magic was to guard your own mind. To make it into a fortress so others could not manipulate you. He wasn't so concerned about outside influence on Stephen's mind. Too often, Stephen was his own worst enemy.

"Remember our bargain," the guardian of the books said. Stephen shivered a little at the word 'bargain'. "Four hours. I'll know, Stephen."

"That's not creepy at all," the younger man muttered. "You need a hobby, Wong. Something other than mothering me."

This time when Wong brought a book out to reset Stephen's brain, the Cloak blocked him. "Traitor."

"It's my relic." He fingered the Cloak affectionately. In his next breath, he suggested, "You could take up knitting."

STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE STRANGE

That night, Stephen dreamed.

It wasn't the unsettling greyness that had frightened him more than it should have. No. These were memories.

He'd been in his residency when his sister had first shown signs of something wrong. A high school student, living with their parents, the headaches Donna had developed had seemed nothing more than the usual stress from upcoming finals and graduation. If Stephen hadn't visited for Spring Break, well, not much would have changed. She would have still died, just not on his table.

And failure wouldn't have seemed such the sin it had been. Something to avoid at all costs, eventually fueling his arrogance and need for success. His parents had been older when Donna had died, the pain and the fighting between Stephen and Victor had been too much. Within three years of her death, he and his brother had lost their parents. To this day, Stephen didn't know where Victor had gone. If he were still alive. The Strange family did not deal with death well.

The trouble with an eidetic memory; you could remember certain events with perfect clarity. Donna's death was indelibly inked on Stephen's brain. Though certain things, unrelated to the event, were fuzzy, Stephen was pretty sure he hadn't operated on his sister in the dark dimension. Yet in his dreamscape, as he worked at the end of his surgical table, the world around him was in the dark, ultra violet hues of Dormammu's domain.

Furthering his dream-addled confusion was the fact that his nurse and assistant were Star Lord and Tony Stark each wearing scrubs with their faces covered.

"How many did you see?" Star Lord asked.

"Fourteen million six-hundred five," he answered distractedly. He willed his scarred hands to steady, as Tony handed him a scalpel.

"How many did we win?"

Over his surgical mask, he locked eyes with the man he'd both saved and condemned with a single stone. "One."

Suddenly, Donna sat up on the surgical table and sneered at him. Her dark hair falling around her young, pretty face, the grey/blue eyes that matched his own accusing him. "No bargain for the dead this time?"

He froze, the grief overwhelming him. How did anyone choose one man over trillions upon trillions? There wasn't just earth, but every planet and dimension in the universe. The power of infinity and Thanos had chosen death. He didn't like it then and he didn't like it now. How often had the Ancient One chosen between two evils? How had she born it for centuries?

"Why couldn't you save us, Strange?" Tony asked. His speech broken and difficult, the right side of his face, burnt, his eye blood shot. "Why couldn't you save me?"

_Dormammu, I've come to bargain._

The green magic of the Time Stone was wrapped around his wrists. But no matter how much he waved his hands about, he could not reverse the flow of time. That power had never truly belonged to him and now it was gone forever.

"You failed us, Stephen."

_Yeah, but I can lose, over and over again. _

The world suddenly shifted in a blink of an eye, stretching out before an endless graveyard. So many names, some he recognized, many he didn't. He stood there alone, amongst the dead. "Join us, Stephen," a voice muttered.

He gasped, falling back against a headstone, his hands grasping uselessly to catch himself. He recognized that voice. With a mental slap, he stilled himself. This was a dream. One that he'd allowed himself to get caught up in.

It took all his mental effort to push against the fog of the dream. It was harder than usual. He could feel a now familiar energy pressing down on his will. Stephen Strange may not be an egotistical, arrogant neurosurgeon anymore, he may have learned to put the needs of others before himself, but he was still one stubborn son of a bitch. And this was one prison he wouldn't be caught in.

His eyes snapped open and he found himself in the grey/black shadows of his bedroom in the Sanctum. His arm burned red hot and sitting up was more of a chore than it should have been. He didn't know if his breathing was haggard and rushed because of the nightmare or the effort it had taken to get out of it. His heart pounded in his ears and sickly, wet weight pressed in on him.

On his nightstand, his alarm clock etched the time in blood red numbers against the darkness. 4:00 p.m. Good, he'd at least be able to tell Wong he'd met the conditions of their deal. Ready to spend the rest of the early morning reading, he reached over to turn his lamp on.

As soon as the light stretched out to the dark corners of his room, he saw the figure.

"Donna?" he gasped, jumping out of bed and rushing to where the figure of his sister had stood.

"We're waiting for you, Stephen."

Before he could touch her with an outstretched hand, she was gone. He slumped down at the foot of his bed, the shock keeping him from noticing the Cloak landing comfortingly on his shoulders. Was this a hallucination brought on by his dreams and lack of sleep or had she really been there?

He ran a trembling hand down his face, for once the rest of him moving in time with his hands.

Maybe he should read in the library, with a cup of tea, and the lights all on.


End file.
